I Kill Me: The Uncouth Reputation of Melmacshire
by iheartreginaldveljohnson
Summary: Mr. Gordon Shumway, the Earl of Melmacshire, has long held a poor reputation among the ladies and gentlemen of the English Midlands. His penchant for robotry has caught the attention of Reginald VelJohnson, a local constable, and the Earl of Mypos, who sees an opportunity to ingratiate himself amongst the nobles. But Shumway is in love - and will allow nothing to stand in his way.
1. Chapter 1

I Kill Me: Of the Ill Reputation of the Earl of Malmacshire

It was a dark and stormy night and Gordon Shumway, Earl of Melmacshire, wondered through the irregular light brought with the lightning, whether the engorged drops on the window were from the deluge outside ... or the deluge the sad, sad salt tears cascading down his totally gnarly fur.

Maybe it was better not to look, thought Shumway, and question how deeply all of ... this ... unsettled him. These heart-shaped claws, tearing totally lovingly at his Alftastic heart. With a whisper barely audible on a clear night, Shumway breathed out a facetious, "ha", echoing its fog silhouette on the clear windowpane. On the intake, Shumway, tried to breathe into himself some emotional state that would not sadden him so. The first strike of white thunder illuminated him with incomplete respite. For a second – he had learned to think in terrestrial measurements of time – it showed him the fruits of vast grounds of his veranda, soaking with heavenly tears that nourished his lush green estate. But Shumway's heart was hollow and the weight of this poverty felt heavier than any hollowness should.

If he were to be honest with himself Shumway was thankful for the lightning. His robot servant, VIKI, was ... away ... and would not return until the next day. Books held no appetite for him and it was too late at night and still to treacherous for him to call on any of his gaunt, few friendships. His mansion always felt large, and cold, with footsteps echoing through the colonnades of doorways, but now the only sound was of the shifting of those paw-feet things he had. Shumway's memoirs were always there to finish – but for the past three days his hand stammered every time he tried to write. He could think of nothing to do at all – and given his emotional state, Shumway contemplated the danger that enveloped him, knowing what was transpiring in the next earldom of Mypos.

The lightning crackled again, each stroke distancing itself from the last. Shumway continued to scan the periodic distance for any sign of her unlikely, early return. The thunderstrokes became quieter, Shumway's alien heart grew louder. He would do it. There was nothing he wanted in his life more – not even a mountain of cats.

The minutes blurred as Shumway's clear thoughts guided him to do what he knew he had to do: he bypassed the black sludge lying on the floor from today's earlier mishaps, put on the multicolored shirt his friend Caliban from the Bermoothes had presented him with years ago. With a marriage of thought and action he shut the heavy door of Alfwick behind him.

It was only when he once again paused for a moment to consider how unscrupulous, how ribald, how uncouth he was acting did Shumway realize this was the first time in decades he had left the house.

The dark air, pregnant with Midlands fog, wafted through his snout. Curiously to the emptiness, he spoke as a trickle, trying to galvanize himself with the knowledge that acting on his love was blooming a wilted purpose until mere minutes ago:

"I …

I kill me."


	2. Chapter 2

It was a light and clangy day. Ross swang his shovel like a pendulum into the sand, adding to the copious pile immediately to his right.

"Do you … "

Ross paused for the space of three breaths,

"dig …", and paused again,

"what we're doing out here?"

The cacophony of canned laughter that accompanied Ross's soundbite-like diction, even in the field and only funny relative to Jonestown or the Children's Crusade, lumped like canned shrapnel in Jake's throat. Prison was better than this.

If possible, the already soaked brow of Ross sweated even more as he interrupted himself. "I hope they don't … desert us … on this desert island!" The laughter infected his declaration. Jake thought, where was this canned laughter coming from? The North Sea? The top of the tree? Buried in the sand, somewhere?

Jake's patience bent. "Shut the egg-salad up, Book-Learning Man. I ain't paying you to relive some 80s nightmare." He pivoted slightly under the shadow of the thin tree and buried his hands in his pockets, hoping that what he learned in Riker's could be put to use to make Ross work faster. Or less annoyingly.

Ross, visibly stunned at Jake's anger and watching the dark shadow of the tree envelop Jake's aggressive stance, responded in the only way he knew how. "But I tree really hard to be funny!" It was not working. Jake counted down in the sand-timer in his mind. Ross, by his calculus, had one more retort before a Broad Street Beating. One more retort. Jake sighed, hoping his inverbal cues would prompt Ross to be aware of how much peril he was in. He wanted to dig up the friend of his ancestors, not to hear the -

"I mean, I hope you can still sand –"

All of a sudden, there was a TING! Jake's eyes widened reflexively and Ross's methodical rhythm withered. Sweat fell in droplets into the sand in front of him and a reflective gleam that could only come from the truth of metal blinded him.

That sight – something round and metallic, peeking out from hundreds of years buried in sand – and the sound – of the TING! - were the only things that silenced Ross.

Jake Ochmonek, keeper of the lost wisdom of Gordon Shumway, 19th century English aristocrat, was prompted by his ecstasy at the suddenly obvious success of his archaeological venture to stutter uncontrollably.

"Gor …. Gordon? Your … this is your spaceship? Gordon, I've been looking for so …"

Ross stared, fixed at Jake. There was no canned laughter. The waves rolled in and, by the time Ross was able to quietly congratulate himself with the dignity of a job well done, Jake was pawing at the protruding metal with a bestial frenzy.

At last. The spaceship of Gordon Shumway, Earl of Melmacshire, thought buried in 1817 in a terrible storm, had been found.


End file.
